THE BEAT GOES ON
Anyone with even an occasional eye to the tube is no doubt aware of the cultural phenomenon known as the "cigarette man." Or rather was aware, before the F.C.C. so neatly — if somewhat belatedly — invited cigarette advertising not to appear on television, thereby freeing us forever from the Marlboro Man and his soul buddies.
Winchester Man Lips A Stiff One
Anyone with even an occasional eye to the tube is no doubt aware of the cultural phenomenon known as the "cigarette man." Or rather was aware, before the F.C.C. so neatly — if somewhat belatedly — invited cigarette advertising not to appear on television, thereby freeing us forever from the Marlboro Man and his soul buddies. Forever? Well, almost.
The latest cancer stix to infest the market are "little cigars," and the most recently unavoidable is something called Winchester. They may be ringers for your basic filter-tip, but they're really cigars, see, and as such are exempt from the F.C.C. flat. So after only a brief
respite from the hearty, bite-throughthe-filter grins of the Marlboro Man, the crotchless and chromed misogynist with his precious Silva Thins, the guy racking up tireless miles around the globe for a pack of Camels (and his sibling in the filter department, with a Dartmouth diploma stapled to his fly), we are subject to yet another visitation of nicotine-made-flesh-and-bone: the Winchester Man.